


Analemma

by Polly_Lynn



Series: Solstice stories [5]
Category: Castle
Genre: F/M, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:50:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's the longest day of the year and he gets to spend it with Kate Beckett. It's better than anything." One-shot, set June 21, 2012 (a few weeks post-Always). (Actually a two-shot as a second chapter crept up on me.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've written two odd, angsty solstice stories, "You in Mind" and "Things You Didn't Know," each set on June 21, 2011. I wanted to write a follow up for the longest day when they're finally together. So obviously that's something you start at 1 AM on the longest day.
> 
> * * *

  


"How much _longer_."

It's the perfect whine. He's had plenty of time to work on it. They were up with the sun—and the sun was up at its very earliest this morning—and worked all day. She's been a machine. A taskmaster and a force to be reckoned with, practically daring the phone to ring as the clock came up on noon. She's made a bad trade with someone who has a wedding. A shift and a half for some monstrosity spanning three days a few weeks from now. The phone didn't dare, and now they've spent something just shy of an eternity getting out of the city. He's had _plenty_ of time to work on the whine.

"Kaaaaaate."

She jerks her head to face him. To glare. Which is what he wanted in the first place.

"Hi."

He grins. He plucks her fingers from the top of the gear shift and kisses them. The glare dissolves instantly. Like a miracle. And that's the thing he wanted in the second place. Glare–Not Glare. There's nothing not fun about that.

"Stop it."

She turns her attention back to the road, but it's an act. Not even a very good one. She's still holding his hand.

"Stop saying hi?"

He nips at the tip of her thumb. Lets his tongue flick briefly over the ridges and whorls. It's a bridge too far. She tugs her hand away, but it's worth it. It's _totally_ worth it when she grips the wheel at ten and two. When she clenches her jaw and watches the road _way_ more carefully than the traffic really calls for out here in the back of beyond.

"Stop doing . . . all _that_." She makes a sharp gesture with one hand, then it's back to being a role model for any and all student drivers who might be peeping in the windows.

"Can't think what you mean, Detective." He slings one arm behind his head and lets his eyes drift not quite closed.

She's glaring again. He can feel it on his skin. He can just see it through the soft light filtering down through thick leaves. Filtering through his lashes. She's not glaring.

She's grinning to herself. Something lopsided and goofy. Cute.

And there's nothing not fun about that.

* * *

"Well." He slams his door and turns to take it all in. Not so much "all" as what there is of it. Her dad's cabin. "This is . . . rustic."

"It's great." She comes around the car and drops his bag at his feet. _On_ his feet practically. "Shut up."

She's not really mad. He doesn't think so, but he gives it up anyway. His affable grumpiness, because this is her plan, not his. He grabs the tail of her shirt. A worn, faded flannel thing that's entirely too lived-in for badass Detective Beckett. He reels her in and wraps her up. Her back to his front and his chin tucked over her shoulder.

"It's great," he rumbles in her ear. He roughs his cheek against her neck until she's loose against him. Smiling again. "It's not the _Hamptons_ , but it's great."

She whirls away. Hits out at him, but he's already on the move. His bag and hers in hand, he's dashing for the porch.

She catches him at the door. Dangles the key and waits for him to surrender. He does. Holds his hands up, bags and all, and submits. A vicious tug to his ear and a hard kiss.

"Better than the stupid Hamptons, Castle." She twists the key and bumps the door open with one hip.

"Better," he echoes, and it's true.

It's better than the Hamptons.

It's the longest day of the year, and he gets to spend it with Kate Beckett.

It's better than anything.

* * *

"I want to swim."

She darts ahead, not bothering to show him around. There's not much to show, frankly. The living room and kitchen run into one another, a fireplace on one wall and a worn-looking couch the only real boundaries.

"So you've said about a hundred times since you used your mysterious powers to get your way about this." He pulls up short as her head pops out of one of the doorways toward the back of the cabin.

"They're called boobs, Castle." She smacks him with the flannel she's stripped off. "And you've seen _hundreds_ if not _thousands_ of them."

"Yes, but yours have been mysterious for four years."

He crowds her back through the doorway and into the tiny room. There's a white quilted coverlet on the high iron bedstead. The walls are peppered with old-fashioned photos in oval frames. An oil lamp converted for a bulb sits on an actual doily on the spindle-legged nightstand, and there's a rag doll slumped in the rocking chair in the corner.

"Mysterious," she repeats, throwing her shoulders back.

Without the flannel, she's down to a clingy tank top tucked into faded jeans that hang loose at her hips. They're toe to toe in the close confines of her teenage summer bedroom.

It's like a match to dry grass.

His palms are at her shoulders, skimming the wide straps of her tank top lower and lower. She's tugging at his belt. His shirttails. They're tumbling to the bed with more enthusiasm than grace. Rolling and jostling trying frantically to make their clothes go away.

"I win," he hisses triumphantly as he jerks her fingers free of her bra strap and tosses it away.

"It's not a r . . . race, Castle." Her consonants slide around in his mouth. Her fingers falter at the waistband of his boxers as he presses hard with his hip and pins her body beneath his own.

"Not anymore, Beckett," he whispers as his mouth leaves hers to travel down and down and down. He stops at her navel. At the bottom-most sweep of her ribs. He lets his tongue drag over her skin. He laughs into the stuttering ripple of breath that runs through her. "Oh . . . didn't you want to swim?"

"Later," she gasps. Her fingers dig into his shoulders. She pushes him further down still.

"Later." He says it to the crease of her thigh. The flare of her hip. "Later."

There's plenty of daylight yet.

* * *

The bed is kind of a wreck. The quilt is . . . somewhere, and the sheets are twisted over and under and between them.

She doesn't seem to care. She's nodding off.

"You're such a _man_ , Beckett." He kisses her temple. Makes an attempt to salvage some of the sheets for her rapidly cooling skin.

"One of us should be," she murmurs as she rolls her hip up at his gentle urging. It liberates the bulk of the top sheet and he settles it over her. "Oh, that's nice."

"Nice," he repeats, and it is. There's a tiny window high up with light pouring through. She's tousled and limp in his arms and the bed is kind of ridiculous. An old-fashioned mattress that swallows them both up like a lullaby.

They doze a while together. Not sleeping exactly. Talking lazily. Drifting in and out.

"Swim," she says after a while. She turns into him, annoyed at the sheet between them. He scuttles obediently underneath. "I wanted to swim."

"Mmmm. Past tense." He hooks a foot around her calf and draws her closer, making the most of the fact that they're skin to skin again. "That's promising."

"Not promising." She _sounds_ cross, but her knee is creeping up the outside of his thigh, and her mouth is traveling over his chest. Her hands are wandering to find his. To make demands he's more than happy to comply with. "I mean it."

"I can tell." He pulls her on top of him entirely. Slots her hips around his own and arches against her. Her eyes fly open. She pins him to the bed with a look that might be terrifying if her hips weren't locked into this wicked little roll. If her back weren't arching and her fingernails weren't leaving marks everywhere they go. "I can see that you're serious about swimming."

* * *

She _is_ serious the second time. Annoyingly, immediately, kind of life-threateningly serious.

"Up." She tears the sheet off the bed entirely. Off _him_ entirely, and he really hopes there's a spare set somewhere. " _Up_ , Castle."

"Yeah. Gonna be a while, you sex fiend."

He's literally still panting up at the ceiling and she's rooting through bags already, full of energy she clearly siphoned directly from him.

"Out of the bed _,_ old man."

She bends at the waist. The view is absolutely unforgettable and 100% not accidental. He's out of the bed. He's grabbing for her, and it's only a little bit about the old man comment. It's only a little bit that— _fuck_ —they cannot get enough of each other, and he does worry sometimes.

It's only a little bit about that, because she dances away from him. She flicks his trunks in his general direction and pulls on her own suit. It's nothing special. Just a serviceable green one piece. She pulls on a pair of cut-offs over it. She tips her head back and twists her hair into a knot.

"What?" She stops with her arms still raised. Her elbows frame her face, and there are curls still tangling around her fingertips.

"Nothing," he says. He shakes his head and looks away. Busies himself stepping into his trunks and finding a t-shirt she hasn't recently savaged. "Nothing."

But it's not nothing. It's that she's beautiful and he loves her and she knows, at least.

Even though he doesn't say it, he's glad she knows.

* * *

She's the best thing about this entire swimming excursion. By far.

"Castle." She ducks her head under the water and bobs back up again. "Come _on._ "

He's playing it up a little. More than a little, though the lake does gross him out for no particular reason.

"You swim in the ocean." She cuts through the water with clean strokes and tugs at his feet dangling from the dock.

"Reasonably sure there are no serial killers or swamp things in my private patch of ocean." He slaps his foot hard against the water, splashing her.

"Sharks though," she says. She splashes him back. Retaliation all out of proportion, of course.

"Shut up." He's serious. He's kind of serious. He hates sharks, and she knows it. Because he's the kind of idiot who tells her that he hates sharks. "My ocean is shark free."

"And my lake is serial killer free." She arcs up out of the water and falls back.

"You look so peaceful like that, Beckett." She does. She's floating. Letting her limbs drift out to her sides. "Perfect for a horror movie coda. This is the exact moment that the serial killer—presumed dead—would rise up out of the water, his knife flashing down."

She laughs up into the sky. Drifts clear of the trees leaning over the water and into a patch of sunlight. Her eyes are closed and her face is at rest.

"Would you save me, Castle?"

The words make their way lazily to him. They pull at him, sudden and insistent. He pushes off the dock with both hands into the water. He's at her side in three strokes.

"I'd save you." She's in his arms, drinking in the words. "I'd save you."

* * *

"It's _cheating_ ," he grouses.

"Thought you were worried about how _rustic_ things were, Castle." She adds another hefty squirt of lighter fluid to the logs, just to annoy him. "Plus, I'm starving."

"You're going to cook over that?" He grabs at the hem of her shorts as she passes by. "Food that you intend to _eat_?"

"Pretty much the idea of a bonfire, Castle." She sets item after item on the far side of her body, away from him, then drops to the ground. "Look. I'm sure you can find _other_ ways of demonstrating your masculinity than taking forty-five minutes to build a fire like your ancestors did."

"That's not even a _question_ , Beckett. I've got nothing _but_ ways of demonstrating my masculinity." He slings an arm around her and nudges his hips closer to her. He makes a production of leaning across her to get a look at the pile of food. "So what've we got?"

"Oh, now my fire's good enough for you?" She palms his chin away from her and curves her arm protectively around her stash.

"Something else that's not even a question." He slides his fingers up the inside of her knee, light and quick enough to make her eyes slip shut. Long enough for the fingers of his free hand to close around his target. "Marshmallows! Please tell me you have graham crackers and chocolate.

"Am I some kind of amateur?" She gives him a withering look. "Of course I have graham crackers and chocolate "

They wrangle. They bicker their way through a dinner that's nine-tenths s'mores and a few bites of hot dog they abandon to the flames.

They fall back to the blanket she's spread out. They kiss and tangle up. A long, lazy make-out session they break up with stories they tell each other while they wait for the stars to come out.

They're a long time coming, the stars, and she's nodding off again already. He is, too. They were up with the sun and it's still busily sinking. They're pretty far north, and it's the longest day of the year.

She shivers at his side, even though she's traded her tank top for a thick fisherman's sweater that must be her dad's. It's still light—not quite dark, anyway—but there's a chill coming off the lake.

"You want to go in?" He hauls her closer to him. Shares his warmth. "Could do stars tomorrow night."

"Maybe." It's a sloppy murmur against his shoulder. "Maybe stars tomorrow."

* * *

She's grumpy. She stands in the middle of the living room and frowns. She gestures wildly at all the things they need to do before they can _possibly_ go to bed.

" _And_ I want cocoa," she says as though it's the final straw.

"Tell me what to do." He coaxes her on to the couch and wraps her in some kind of scratchy blanket. "You're good at that."

"Shut up," she snaps, but she draws her feet up under the blanket and pulls her chin in like a turtle. "Sheets. The bed needs fresh ones from the closet in the bathroom."

The heavy look she gives him implies this is exclusively his fault, but he lets it go. He finds the sheets and sets the bed to rights. She's up again when he comes back. She's stirring something at the stove and clutching the blanket around her shoulders.

"You look like a superhero." He glides up behind her. "A very rustic, cocoa-making superhero."

"Best kind." She gestures with her wooden spoon. "You left the marshmallows outside. and the rest of the food. Go bring that in."

"Yes, _I_ left it outside." He gives her a look as he makes his way to the door. "Because _I_ am the grumpy, shambling zombie who can't even stay up for stars."

"For that," she says, "I'm drinking all the cocoa."

He pushes through the screen door and it's a different world. The sun is gone for good and all, leaving heavy black velvet in its place. Heavy black velvet pierced in a million places, made dusty by light and heat.

The door opens behind him. "Castle?"

"Come look." He holds out his hand, reaching for her blindly. He can't take his eyes off the sky. "Kate, come look."

* * *

They don't stay long. She steps into his arms and rests her head back against his chest, but she's shivering.

"Inside." He kisses her hair. It's long enough for now. He's had his fill of everything that isn't her.

But she fixes herself in place. She wraps her arms around herself. "Cocoa out here?"

"Cocoa in bed." He shakes his head. Tugs at her elbow. She's shivering. "Go." He swats her ass and gets a glare that lingers. "I'll be right in. I'll bring marshmallows."

She goes.

He gathers up the food and the blanket. He stamps down the fire and pours melted ice from the small cooler on the embers.

He makes his way inside, turning locks and lowering lights. Tucking the food away and spreading the blanket she left on the floor back over the rickety sofa.

She's already in bed, her shoulders bare, and every single pillow propped behind her. Her hair fans out, dark against the snowy white. Her mug is a bright point of blue against her belly.

He sheds his clothes quickly and clambers over her to the wall side. Because she sleeps on the outside of the bed. Every bed. Always.

She holds her mug high, grumbling at him as the bed rises and falls, but she hands his mug over and burrows into him the second he's settled.

The cocoa is sweet and warm. He drops marshmallows in until there's a sticky wave topping the rim of each mug.

Her eyelids are heavy. They sink low and rise abruptly. She's fighting it, but he takes the mug from her hand. He sets it on the night table and his with it. He reaches for the light, but she stops him.

He looks down, surprised. Her fingers are tight around her wrist and her eyes are open as wide as she can manage. She's half asleep already.

"Stars tomorrow," she says sternly.

He kisses her softly. Leans over to turn out the light, and this time she lets him.

"Stars tomorrow."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A follow-up crept into my head. Sorry.

* * *

"You're having a good time, right?"

She's awake. She _must_ be awake. Because she's making words. At least he thinks those are words.

"Good time."

He repeats what are probably words. It's all he's got. Because he's not at all awake.

He feels like he just closed his eyes. It's not far from true. Because there was a long good night kiss and it turned out neither of them was quite as tired as they thought. And then he wasn't as quiet as he'd hoped coming back from the bathroom in the middle of the night. So he kind of _has_ just closed his eyes.

"Sorry." It's a swift whisper and a brush of lips over his shoulder. It's light, careful fingers stroking through his hair. "Sorry. It's early. Sleep."

But he reaches for her. Always, awake or not, and there's not far to go. She's draped half over his body already with her chin propped on his rib cage. There's early sun pouring in the tiny window to gild the bare skin of her back.

He sinks further down the bed, tugging. Her skin glides over his and they're sharing it all. Breath and warmth and golden light.

"Good time."

* * *

"Will you just _eat?_ "

She demonstrates by popping a crispy brown potato into her mouth. The taste catches her off guard. She moans around the mouthful, rolling her shoulders and drawing it out.

"Is that how it's done, Beckett? Is that _just_ eating?" He takes up his fork, but she snags the plate away. He ends up stabbing the already scarred butcher block of the counter. "Hey!"

She grins at him. Curves her arm protectively around the plate and away, digging in with her fork all over again.

"No." She dabs at the corners of her mouth with a napkin, a dainty maneuver completely at odds with the way she's tucking in. "You're right, Castle. You don't want any of this."

"Oh, but I do." He hooks the leg of her stool with his foot and drags the two of them closer.

She tries to twist away, holding the plate high, but his fingers curl over her hip. He finds bare skin just where she's ticklish. She shrieks and draws her elbows in. The plate tilts precariously. He catches the food toppling off the edge with his fork and scoops it into his own mouth.

"My _God,_ Beckett." His eyes flutter shut, savoring. "This is amazing."

She smiles wide. Her fingers loosen and she hands over the plate.

"Told you." She props her elbows on the counter and waves off the forkful he tries to offer.

"You can't blame me for being suspicious." He peers at the plate, turning over pieces of sausage and egg and onion, dragging his fork through the rivers of cheese. "There are non-chocolate food groups represented here. Like _all_ of the non-chocolate food groups. Not really in your wheelhouse, Beckett."

"My mom used to make it." She elbows him. She's still grinning. Still all light. It's a good memory, and his stomach does a little flip. "She'd feed me and my dad up and kick us out for the day."

"Kick you out?" He reaches for the coffee pot and tops off both their mugs.

"Mmmm." She savors a sip. "Rustic. It's really more my dad's thing. She'd wave to us from the porch and tell us not to come back until dinner time. We'd be out on the lake or hiking all day, and she'd sit on the porch in this huge floppy hat and big sunglasses. She'd have a stack of books this high." She holds her palm above the counter. "That and a pitcher of iced tea and her day was set. She'd finish one book, set it off on the other side and pick up the next. Just straight in. Sometimes she wouldn't even look up."

"So what was her poison?" He thinks about it. "Short if she was working through a stack. Not romance novels?"

He's too late to keep the appalled look off his face. He looks up quickly, ready with an apology, but she's scowling too.

" _Not_ romance novels," she says. Her eyes flick away. It's half a second, that's all, but it makes him sit up. It makes his heart hammer when a shy smile curls up the corners of her mouth. "You, actually."

" _Me?!"_ It's practically a shout.

"Yes, _you._ "She laughs. "Go ahead and gloat."

"No." He sets his fork down. He leans in to kiss her. "No gloating." She pulls back, surprised, and he can't quite resist. "But I should've guessed a weakness for me would run in the family."

* * *

The sun is brutal. The sky is a cloudless, intense blue. The mirror calm of the lake bounces every last ray back up at them, and the metal sides of the canoe are hot to the touch.

"Castle!" She snaps over her shoulder as the silver nose pivots into yet another turn that carries them back toward shore. Back under the comparatively cool shade of the thick trees leaning in over the lake. "You can _not_ be that bad at this."

He drops his chin sharply as though he's been concentrating on his back sweep, rather than the tantalizing spot where her spine dips in at her lower back and skin gives way to denim.

"Sorry." He slaps at the water awkwardly with the paddle. "I thought you said . . . What?"

She's turning toward him suddenly. Carefully, skillfully pulling her paddle in to balance across the boat's sides and swinging her legs around to face him.

"You're _not_ that bad at this." She leans as far toward him as she can without adding too much of her weight to his end. As it is, the nose lifts a little as he sinks. "You've been kicked out of every boarding school and prep school and boys school in the state. There is _no way_ . . ."

"Guilty." He pulls his own paddle in to lay across his knees. He ducks hid head in mock contrition, it's no good. He's grinning hard. "I can paddle, row, scull, punt, or sail pretty much any kind of boat with reasonable facility."

"Then what the _hell,_ Castle?" Her hand darts out into the water. A quick move that rocks the canoe sharply. She cups her palm and scoops a huge wave toward him.

"It's hot in the sun." He peers up at her, shaking off the water and still hiding beneath the brim of the fishing hat she's been rolling her eyes at all morning. "And the other side of the lake is, like, _way_ over there. And . . . "

He shuts up abruptly, but it's too late.

"And _what_?"

"And I'm worried about sunburn," he says quickly. "I'm not sure you were thorough with the sunscreen. And you wouldn't let me check and . . ." She folds her arms and lets him ramble. She stares him down, her face is absolute stone. "And I _hate_ canoes," he finishes with a stubborn flick at the water. "There is, like, _zero_ possibility for making out in a canoe."

She smiles, of all things. Something slow and dangerous that unfurls. He jerks toward her, immediate and unthinking, because he needs to wipe that look right off her face as soon as possible, but they're in a damned _canoe_. His paddle skids forward and the boat rocks alarmingly.

She's unfazed. Her foot arcs up, timed perfectly to stop the slide of his paddle and shove it back his way. In the same motion, she takes up her own paddle and swings back around to face the front of the boat.

"Castle, there was _zero_ possibility of making out once you put on that hat."

* * *

"So. Not quite zero," he murmurs against her cheek.

"Shut up." She swats at him. "I made you take it off."

"Among other things." He nips at her shoulder.

"Still fully clothed here, Castle." She arches her back, splaying her arms wide against the faded plaid of the blanket. She turns the pale skin of her wrists up to the sun and lets her eyes drift shut.

He runs a lazy hand down her side, and it's technically true. Other than his hat which he suspects he won't find, no matter how hard he searches, the last little while has been more about frantic groping and strategic rearrangement, rather than removal of clothing.

"Only literally," he says as his hand creeps under her shirt. "And only because of you and your weird rules."

"My weird rules about public nudity and sex in cemeteries." She rolls toward him abruptly, not exactly discouraging his wandering fingers.

"First of all . . ." He curls an arm around her waist and hauls her higher on his chest. "We're _next to_ the cemetery." He nods behind them to the rusted out iron fence. "Second of all, it's a super old _—_ and by the way very _cool_ —cemetery here on the other side of your lake, so I'm pretty sure there's nobody alive to be offended. And third of all . . ." The hand at her waist dips to trace its way up the inside of her thigh. "Third of all . . . you're kind of all about the technicalities right now, Detective."

She shivers and rolls against him. Her mouth lands hard at the base of his throat. She sucks at the skin and pulls away with a wet sound that's absolutely _profane_. "Technicality is nine-tenths of the law, Castle."

"I don't think . . ." His breath skips and his words trail off as her hands travel swiftly down his sides. "I don't think that's the saying."

"Don't think, Castle." She tugs at his belt. "It only gets you in trouble."

* * *

"Stars," she reminds him when he gives her a look for pulling out the big pot for coffee. "You're not dozing off on me tonight."

"Yes. Dozing off. I definitely won't do that again." He smiles down into the sink full of soapy water as she presses a kiss to his shoulder blade in passing.

He finishes up the dinner dishes and heads outside to get the fire started.

"No cheating," she calls after him. She taps the can of lighter fluid on the counter behind her.

"My fires are free of accelerants and other carcinogens, Beckett."

It feels like cheating anyway. Her dad has a ridiculous stock of neatly stacked wood under a heavy tarp that's secured within an inch of its life. There's a lidded tin pail next to the pile with dry, scrubby plants, pine needles, and paper sealed in a plastic bag for tinder. The weather has held up for them, but the days earlier in the week were windy enough that the ground is littered with smaller branches.

They lingered over a late dinner, and the sun is low, if slow to set. It's a little hard to see in the heavy shade around the house. She's just stepping through the door, mugs in hand, when he touches the match to the loose pile of needles and paper underneath.

It catches immediately, but sputters and snaps. Some of the branches must still be damp. He moves quickly to shelter the small flame from the light breeze. He pokes a few more pine needles nearer and fans gently, coaxing until a critical mass of kindling catches.

"What?" He turns to find her standing a few feet off, watching.

"Nothing." She crosses to him and hands off one of the mugs. "Just . . ." She gestures to the fire as it pops. One flame leaps merrily to the next piece of wood. "Cool. There's a lot more swearing when my dad insists on doing it the old fashioned way."

"Swearing?" He shifts back to sit in the low camp chair beside her. He grabs a marshmallow and spears it with one of the pair of long sticks he's laid by. He leans forward and keeps it turning, carefully browning it on all sides. "Your dad?" He glances back at the well-ordered supplies. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. He's . . . not very flexible when the hypothetical doesn't work the way it's supposed to." She laughs and sets her mug down carefully. She rifles through the bag of marshmallows at length and he knows she'll insist the three she picks are somehow _better_ than the other, superficially identical marshmallows. She threads them on to a stick and plunges them into the fire, grinning as the outsides bubble and char. "He wouldn't have had the patience to wait for that to catch."

"Oh, I'm _very_ patient."

He gives her a sideways leer as he tugs the marshmallow from the stick with his teeth, but she's smiling. Eyes on the fire and a little pink in the cheeks as she works at the black and white mess oozing over her fingers.

"I know."

* * *

"You're lucky this is worth it," he grumbles as he watches her pull on another layer.

The temperature's been dropping steadily and the grass in the clearing behind the house is already damp. After the heat of the day and her appealingly scanty clothing, it feels like they're gearing up for an arctic expedition.

"Totally worth it."

She shoves a rolled blanket at him and gives him a smile that's all teeth. She's practically bouncing with excitement. She darts out the back door and he's hardly had time to spread the double layer of blankets when she drops the thermos and everything and flops on to her back, arms flung wide.

"Come on!" She pats the blanket at her side impatiently. "Look!"

He tugs the corners of the blanket a little straighter, then settles down beside her. She pulls at him roughly, raising his arm to duck beneath it and pulling one of his legs between her own.

She's shivering a little. Burrowing into him and folding her fingers underneath his body. He makes an awkward reach beyond her to peel the top blanket up and over her. She sweeps her lips over his jaw in thanks and nudges his chin up with her nose.

"Look," she says again. "Worth it.

It is. It's totally worth it. It's blacker than black at ground level with even the cabin lights out. But when he turns his face up, he has to blink against the brilliance.

The sky isn't quite as clear as the night before, but it's better for it, somehow. The ragged scraps of cloud scudding across the crescent moon and the wind stirring the trees and falling silent add something eerie and yearning. Even the bulky press of clothes and the fact that she's pressing the frigid tip of her nose into his neck feels right. They point out constellations—real and imagined. They make up stories. Sad and funny and outlandish as parts of the sky appear and disappear. Each thing feels more perfect than the last.

He tightens his arm around her and lets his eyes open wide. It's a heady sensation, all of it. Like he can see the world spinning, and the stars are fixed in place. Constant.

"Worth it," he whispers.

* * *

"You could put on socks." He's being patient. He doesn't point it out until the third time her hopping from foot to foot sends her crashing into him in the cramped bathroom.

"It's summer," she says like he's a little dim. "I'm not wearing socks."

He stops in the act of reaching for the door of the medicine cabinet to stare. "You were just wearing like four pairs of socks and hiking boots. And how is that your feet are absolutely ice cold _already,_ by the way?"

"I'm not wearing socks to bed." She shoves in front of him.

He drops his hands to set his toothbrush on the edge of the sink. He catches her around the waist and toys with the drawstring of her oversized flannel pans. "Newsflash. You're not wearing anything to bed. But we're not _in_ bed yet."

"But we're . . ." She tugs open the medicine cabinet too quickly. A handful of things tumble out. "Going."

Her hand shoots out, snatching at the pile in the sink. Her fingers close around an amber prescription bottle. Full, by the sound of it. She presses it to her middle with both hands. She goes still. Quiet, like someone's flipped a switch.

"Kate?" His hands hover just shy of her body. It's sudden. It's _so_ sudden that he's worried, though he has no idea about what. It feels like the world is pressing down on them both.

But it's over then. In an instant. She lets out a breath. She turns and holds the bottle out to him. She's smiling. It's a little shaky, but she's smiling.

He takes the bottle from her and turns to read the label. Her name. A date a little more than a year back.

"Pain meds?" He shakes it. "You didn't take them."

"Not much," she admits. "Not for long." She shrugs. Looks a little sick at the memory. "Not a fan."

"It was bad?" He makes it into a question, then feels stupid. "Of course it was bad, I'm sorry, that's . . ."

"It's ok. It's not like . . ." She looks up at him. Meets his eye with a determined kind of steadiness. ". . . not like you'd know how it was."

"But this is good." He sets the bottle down. He curves his palms around her shoulders and sweeps his thumbs over her collarbones, just barely brushes the edges of the scar. He kisses her. Telling her, not asking. "Yesterday. Today. This is good."

She smiles. He feels it. The amazing lift at the corners of her mouth as she kisses him back. She winds her arms around his neck.

"This is good," she says softly. "Food and stars and being out on the lake." She raises up on her toes. Presses closer and closer. "Everything I wanted last year but couldn't have. Everything I missed. But this is good."


End file.
